Doc in the Box (11 page)

There was more talk about strategy and precedent and court cases. The court cases were cited by the slick young assistants, who liked to show how smart they were. My feet were killing me and I was having a hard time staying balanced on the wobbly seat. The strong cherry-scented disinfectant did not mask the restroom smells. Also, I had to use the bathroom, but I didn’t want to miss anything major while the police brass were talking. God, they were still talking. I heard, “The police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission … mumble, mumble … we’ll probably lose … hospital will refuse us … a matter of life and death … Missouri Attorney General … grave bodily harm …”

They batted these same phrases around like a cat playing with a paper ball and said something about a precedent which I couldn’t quite decipher. But I thought I’d heard enough to figure out what was going on. Police investigators wanted access to the late doctors’ patient records, but the hospital lawyers refused. The law protected confidential medical records, the hospital claimed, and the police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission. The police were protesting this decision. They were going to ask their in-house attorneys to file an appeal in circuit court. This was a story, if I ever got out of the bathroom.

At last, I heard a chair scrape back and someone try the doorknob. Then more chairs were scraping. The police brass were leaving, and none too soon. I waited long enough for them to pay the bill, then put on my shoes, used the john, and left, flushed with success.

“Hi, Francesca,” said Mayhew, waving me over to his table. “Come join me for breakfast.”

“Sure. I’ll just have coffee, though. I have to get back to the office. I’m not hungry.”

“Since when?” he said, shoveling in a huge forkful of bacon. That man looked good even with his mouth full. He was wearing a navy sport coat with gold buttons and a gold wedding ring. I concentrated on the wedding ring, reminding myself that he had little kids. Marlene poured us both fresh cups and he gulped his down. He asked what I was working on, and I told him about Leo D. Nardo’s disappearance. Unlike Marlene, he didn’t take the missing dancer seriously. “Probably shacked up with some customer,” he said.

“Are you still working on the Moorton Hospital murders?” I asked.

“Yeah. We’ve done a lot of interviews: all the hospital staffers on duty that day, the security people, the victims’ family, friends, former roommates. I’m beat.”

I didn’t have to ask if there were any leads. He sounded too down. “Get anything on the tip hotline?”

“It’s clogged with calls,” he said. “More than three hundred. Most are useless. The killer is their neighbor, their brother-in-law, or someone they saw at the 7-Eleven.”

“Did you find the UPS driver who was running from the scene, the one with the tanned legs and tight buns?”

“How’d you know about him?” He looked surprised.

“I have my sources,” I said. If I told him it was Tina, I’d lose any sense of mystery.

“He turned out to be a real UPS driver,” Mayhew said. “Heard the sirens and ran to get his truck out of a tow-away zone.”

“I wonder how they ID’d him—by his tanned legs or tight buns?”

Mayhew laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to tell me. I waited until he took another bite and then said, “I hear your in-house attorneys are going to go to court so the police can see the confidential patient medical files.”

He stopped chewing. “How the hell did you find that out?” he said. “Marlene doing your work for you again?”

“I hear things,” I said, truthfully. “You think the killer is a disgruntled patient, don’t you?”

“We suspect he
might
be,” Mayhew said, carefully.
“And we’re not even sure it’s a he. I’d like to know where this leak is coming from.”

“You know I can’t reveal anything about an ongoing investigation,” I said, just to yank his chain. It worked.

“Francesca,” he said, seriously, “tell me you’re not doing anything on the Moorton Hospital murders.”

“Why not? At this point, the police have about as much information as I do,” I said.

“Don’t even go there,” he said. “You almost got killed and sued last time you investigated a murder.”

“Me? Interfere with a police investigation? Wouldn’t think of it. I’m going to concentrate on the case of the disappearing dancer.”

I was, too. As soon as I wrote the story about the police wanting to examine the patients’ private medical records. I enjoyed calling Major Gideon Davis when I got to the office. He blustered a bit and threatened to fire the person or persons responsible for leaking confidential information to the press. I almost told him where I got it, just to see if he’d fire himself. Then he calmed down and decided to put the best face on things. He said it wasn’t a big deal because they were going to hold a press conference tomorrow anyway. He confirmed that the hospital attorneys had denied the police access to the patient records and the police in-house attorneys were going to file suit in circuit court. Then he actually gave me a decent quote:

“We do not believe these were professional hits or random killings,” Gideon said. “We believe the killer knew the victims, and knew his or her way around the building. One theory we’re working on is that the
killer may be the relative of a deceased patient who used the radiation oncology facilities or a patient whose life expectancy has been shortened by some procedure in that department. A look at patient records would help us determine the feasibility of this theory.”

By the time I finished the story and took Georgia for her treatment, it was almost twelve-thirty and I was ready to work on Leo’s story again. I stopped by the main library and checked a crisscross directory, a nifty book that listed people by phone number and address. If you had the address, you could find the name and phone number. If you had the phone number, you could find the name and address. The directory told me who Officer Friendly’s mysterious platinum blonde was.

Next, I drove to Belleville to the brick apartment complex. A rather sharp-nosed neighbor confirmed my suspicions. I now knew enough to ruin Officer Friendly’s exotic dancing career. I marched over to his front door and knocked boldly, for a blackmailer. One
P.M
. was a late start even for a slug like me, but it was early for a stripper. A bleary-eyed Officer Friendly opened the door in a not-so-exotic blue terry bathrobe.

I peeked in the door and saw signs of the blonde—one red spike heel flung off by the kitchen and an abandoned gold bracelet on the coffee table. In one corner was a box of toys. A little boy with white blond hair was roaring around the kitchen on a brightly colored plastic tricycle.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“I’d love to, but I’m busy,” Officer Friendly said,
starting to shove the door closed in an unfriendly manner.

“You tell me about your wife, or I’ll tell everyone else,” I said.

He turned white, then reluctantly let me inside. The little boy toddled up and presented me with a toy truck. It was slimy with saliva.

“You’re married and this is your little boy,” I said.

“Jazmin is just a friend I’m staying with,” he said, eyes darting frantically.

“You’re lying. She’s your wife. That’s your wedding picture on the wall over the couch.”

He went from frantic to defiant. “Okay, we’re married. So what?”

“So it could ruin you if it got out. Do you think those women will drive to the Heart’s Desire to watch Ward Cleaver take off his clothes? They can see a naked family man at home for free.”

“Please, don’t tell my boss. I have a family to support. ”

“Then tell me everything you know about Leo D. Nardo.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he said. “He likes the ladies and they like him, and he hopes one day someone will like him so much she’ll take care of him permanently.”

“That can’t be all there is to him.”

“It is. Please, you have to believe me.”

I remembered the building crowds last night, and the chubby brunette eager to fill his G-string with fives. “You wanted to be a star. You had him killed.”

“No! How can you say that?” Officer Friendly looked so horrified I thought he’d pass out, right in front of me.

“Then you helped him disappear.”

“No. I swear I didn’t. I’d never do that. You got to believe me. I liked things the way they were when I was the warm-up act. I was making nice money, with no pressure. Jazmin works at a bank during the day, and I watch Tyler, then work in the evenings. I never wanted to be a headliner. Now Steve gets on my case if the gate’s too small and drink receipts are too low, like it’s all my fault if the women aren’t buying booze. I don’t know what happened to Leo, and I’d do anything to bring him back.”

“Then tell me who he dated. Men? Women? Customers?”

“No men. He’s definitely straight. He never dates one girl, I mean lady, I mean customer, very long. The older ones like to give him presents, and he likes to take them. But he wasn’t with anyone the night he disappeared. I would have told you. I saw him talking to an old lady in the parking lot, and that’s all I saw. I swear it. Then I went straight home.”

By this time, the little boy was crying, and Officer Friendly was on the verge of tears. I left. I hated to see a grown man cry. I felt like a louse, making wild accusations to stir him up.

No pain, no gain, I told myself. That was a concept Leo would understand. I had enough now to write a hell of a story about his disappearance. I’d also keep asking questions around Moorton Hospital. My life was about to get really interesting. I’d stirred up two hornets’ nests at once. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next.

Nothing happened.

My story about Leo D. Nardo ran, but it didn’t solve the mystery of his disappearance. No one saw him after he left the Heart’s Desire—no one who would admit it, anyway. His killer, if there was one, didn’t want to discuss it. I’d hoped the gray-haired woman seen talking to him in the parking lot would call. But she didn’t.

Plenty of Leo’s fans called, though. They wanted to talk about the times they’d seen him dancing. They described his active abs and gorgeous glutes in graphic detail. It was like being trapped in a sorority of heavy-breathers. Jeez, no wonder Leo wanted to get away from his life. I was afraid he got his wish, too. I tried not to think about the strangely innocent man with the wicked body lying in a shallow grave.

I kept asking questions at Moorton Hospital, but I got nowhere there, either. I talked with all the chemo nurses. I tracked down several of Dr. Brentmoor’s patients, and everybody I could find who went to radiation oncology in the week before the killings. We regulars recognized each other, so it was easy to start a conversation. Georgia belonged to the club. It
wasn’t exclusive—more than one out of three Americans has cancer—but the initiation is hard. Once you’ve heard those words, “You have cancer,” you never look at life the same way. You’re a different person, and so is everyone who cares about you. That’s why patients talked to me when they wouldn’t talk to the police. I was an associate member of the club, thanks to Georgia. I heard countless examples of Dr. Brentmoor’s uncaring arrogance and radiation oncology’s criminal rudeness. But no one saw anything that would lead to murder, or heard anyone making death threats.

I was frustrated at the dead ends. But there was one good result. Sometimes I didn’t think about Lyle for a whole day. A whole half day, anyway. Then I would see something, any little thing—a man who looked like him from the back, or whose hair curled over his forehead like Lyle’s, and the loneliness would hit me like a punch to the gut. It sounds terrible, but I was glad Georgia’s illness distracted me.

When I took to brooding too much, I went to Uncle Bob’s. I got my first lead there. Along with my skimpy breakfast, Marlene served up a generous side of gossip. She poured herself a cup and sat down in my booth.

“I’m on break now,” she said, “and I have some news you can use. A customer who’s a nurse at Moorton told me that Dr. Better Sell Brentmoor was running around on his wife with a nurse.”

“Now there’s a real surprise,” I said. “I bet half the doctors at the hospital are cheating on their wives with nurses.”

“I bet your estimate is low,” she said. “But my source says Brentmoor got the nurse pregnant.”

“No surprise there, either. My friend Jinny Peterson was a family planning counselor at a women’s clinic, and she used to see way too many pregnant nurses, and the father was often a doctor. You’d think if anyone would know where babies come from, it would be doctors and nurses. But you’d be surprised how many nurses came in for abortions. They really believed the doctor would leave his wife and marry them.”

“Brentmoor was going to leave his wife and marry her,” Marlene said.

I think my mouth dropped open. “You’re joking.”

“Not according to this nurse. She says Stephanie the wife was on her way out, and the nurse—her name is Heather—was on her way in.”

“She must have been a knockout,” I said.

Marlene shrugged. “Not really, not what I heard. She was not as classy as the current Mrs. Brentmoor, but she was a lot younger and curvier.”